Page 16 of Siren

We pulled off slow.

I stayed quiet, eyes on the blur outside my window. The way the streetlights hit glass, how the buildings shifted from familiar to new in a single turn.

Then Dre spoke.

"You good?"

I didn’t look over. Just nodded once. “Yeah.”

He waited a beat. “He alright.”

That made me glance his way.

“Taraj?” I asked.

Dre nodded. “Got that old-school energy. Quiet. Watchful. Doesn’t move too fast, and doesn’t say more than he means. I clocked that.”

I studied his reflection through the rearview mirror. “You think he’s real?”

“I think he’s been through something. Whatever it was, it ain’t performative. I’ve been in the people-watching business a long time. You can see it in the way he stands. Like he’s not performing, but he’s not hiding either. That’s rare.”

I let that sit. Because the truth was—I’d felt it, too. The way something inside me had stirred just being near him. Not butterflies. Not lust. Something older than both.

I hadn’t expected that. Hadn’t wanted that. But it had happened. And now it lived under my skin—low, quiet, and electric.

Still, I kept that to myself. Instead, I turned back toward the window.

The city moved like a slow song with no chorus. Just rhythm and breath.

"He’s not what I expected," I said eventually.

"Maybe you ain’t either," Dre replied.

I closed my eyes. Let the motion of the car rock me deeper into stillness. It didn’t matter. None of this extra stuff mattered.

This was about the art.

The music.

The campaign.

And giving the label what they wanted.

Whatever I’d felt back there—whatever part of me had reached toward him—it would have to wait. Or vanish.

Either way… It wouldn’t change the plan.

FIVE

My dad’s place sat on a private acre in the South Hills. Not flashy on the outside, but inside it was quiet luxury. Rich brown leathers and earth-toned fabrics layered against deep mahogany wood. Heated marble floors gleamed in the foyer, giving way to plush, custom rugs in all theright places. The sunken living room boasted tailored furniture and lighting that adjusted tone depending on the hour—warm in the morning, golden by dusk.

He never called it a mansion. Said that was too “new money.” But the square footage, staff rotation, and three-car garage said different.

I’d been here more times than I could count, but something felt… different tonight. I could feel it the second I stepped through the door.

The place was too still. Not empty—but expectant. Like it had just exhaled. Then I heard it. Music. Soft, old-school slow jam floating down from upstairs. Something warm. Familiar.

I paused near the bottom of the staircase. Almost followed the sound. Almost climbed the steps to see who had my father’s playlist in rotation.

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